


Unfortunate Connections

by MrProphet



Series: Deadly [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 04:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	Unfortunate Connections

“I just hope that she doesn’t have any… unfortunate connections,” Petunia said for the fourteenth time. “I’m sure that any girl my little Duddy has chosen will be suitable, but we really don’t know much about her.”

“It will be alright,” her husband assured her. “He met her in the army. She’s officer class, Pet; just the right sort for our little boy.” He indicated the bride’s side of the aisle and their array of mess dress uniforms.

Ginevra Potter almost felt moved to comment that little was not a word anyone else would have chosen to describe Dudley Dursely, but a glance from her husband stopped her. Still, it was only the truth. Six-foot-two and broad in the shoulder, Dudley was in fighting trim but hardly lissom. He was, in point of fact, the third biggest person present; the bride’s former teacher and her date each significantly outmassed him, a fact which had drawn Petunia’s ire.

“Still, at least the rest of her relations seem to be of a…  _respectable_  kind,” she noted with a withering glower at her nephew, who waved back cheerily. She still could hardly believe that Dudley had invited  _him_ , but at least he and his appalling wife had shown up in  _decent_  clothes. 

So far as she could see, only the priest was wearing robes, and that was as it should be.

The organist began to play. Dudley’s back sprang to ramrod straightness and all other eyes turned to the back of the church.

“Oh… no,” Petunia murmured. “Oh no.”

“Oh no,” Vernon agreed.

It was not that the bride was wearing a pale blue dress instead of the traditional white. Neither was it, specifically, that her father had a three foot beard tied into braids and wore a hooded cloak over his morning suit. It was not even the bridesmaids who carried her train and the conical, blue satin hats perched adorably on their heads.

If pressed to say what exactly was wrong with her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Petunia would have to have chosen the veil; a perfectly perfect work of white lace, save for the way it was suspended in a halo around the bride’s head by a trio of tiny, fluttering fairies.

“Oh dear,” Petunia sobbed. “Not my Duddy.”


End file.
